Chapter Three

Despite what Lil might think, we haven't killed anyone with our witchy powers. It eventually transpires that the person who died is Uncle Carl, and it was after his third heart attack, which took place hours before we were drunkenly setting light to a bunch of twigs. I am pretty sure that means we are in the clear.

Uncle Carl was not actually related to any of us, but was my mum's ex-music manager as well as still being Ripp's manager. Despite my mum giving up on her singing career, she and Carl had managed to stay friends over the years – largely, I think, because he acted as a sort of intermediary for Ripp, organizing everything from visitation days to extra money for school trips. Nothing was too much trouble for Uncle Carl, up to and including standing in for our dad when he inevitably forgot or slept through the days he was supposed to be looking after us – something that happened with predictable regularity.

Carl was a rake-thin man who smoked like a chimney and had a mobile phone permanently clamped to his ear. I can roughly date every remembered encounter with him by the size of the phone. He talked out the side of his mouth and always had cherry cough drops in his pocket, which he doled out liberally in between telling us that he'd never had a filling and that the war against sugar was ‘a communist plot'.

Now it's two weeks after the spell casting, and I am driving to his funeral. For some reason best understood by my mother, Carl's wake is being held at our house, after a service at a nearby church. I'm chugging down the M40 in my dilapidated old Ford Fiesta, cursing and running spectacularly late thanks to a mandatory staff meeting at the university that sacked me.

I only hope the car doesn't simply fall apart before I get there. At my last MOT the mechanic told me that if it was a horse he'd have shot it, a comment which I found unnecessary as I handed over an exorbitant fee for four new tyres and a lengthy list of ‘amber warnings that should really be looked at'.

I take two wrong turns, and when I finally squeal up to the church I realize the hearse is right behind me. Grabbing my phone and my handbag, I sprint through the doors. The place is packed and hundreds of heads swing in my direction as I stumble in, pulling my coat over my too-tight black dress and casting around for my family.

A hissed ‘Clemmie!' directs me to where Serena and Lil are saving me a seat, and I fall into the pew beside them not a moment too soon.

‘Cut that a bit close,' Serena whispers as some sombre organ music starts up.

‘Had a nightmare finding the place,' I say, slumping wearily in my seat. I don't have long to reflect because the signal is given that means we are all supposed to rise to our feet. I stand and turn with everyone else to watch the coffin being carried in.

It's hard to believe that Carl, who was after all a very alive person, is inside that small box. I feel a lump in my throat and tears sting my eyes. Lil hands me a crumpled tissue.

As the procession draws level with us I realize that my father is one of the pall-bearers and I feel my body tense. Even though he and Carl were close, I think part of me had expected Ripp to flake on the funeral.

I haven't seen him for at least a year – the last time had been the one and only occasion I introduced Ripp to Len. They had hated each other instantly. At the time I thought that was probably a good sign for my relationship.

Now he spots me and gives me a jaunty little wink. Of course Ripp Harris wouldn't let a little thing like the dead body resting on his shoulder interfere with his charm offensive. I keep my own expression stony, and my stomach sinks as I realize I'm going to have to see him later at the wake.

The discordant groans of the organ get louder, but suddenly I'm aware that there's another sound fighting for attention.

‘YOU HAVE REACHED YOUR DESTINATION,' a voice intones solemnly, cutting through the music. A few heads lift, and I exchange a look of confusion with Serena.

‘YOU HAVE REACHED YOUR DESTINATION,' the voice thunders again, and it seems louder this time. More heads swivel.

‘God?' Lil mouths, casting her eyes up at the high stone roof.

As the six of them continue up the aisle past us and the voice calls out, I notice a hitch in the step of one of the pall-bearers – a man with his back to me. I can't see anything apart from his broad shoulders, dark hair curling over the collar of his perfectly tailored suit.

‘MAKE A U-TURN IF POSSIBLE,' the voice yells now, and the truth begins to dawn on me in painful increments.

‘No, no, no,' I murmur, closing my eyes as if I can will myself to sink through the floor. As if ignoring the problem will make it go away.

‘MAKE A U-TURN IF POSSIBLE,' the voice comes again.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,' I mutter, fumbling with my bag.

There's a horrified gasp from the lady in front of us, who glares at me before rather pointedly looking at the enormous crucifix hanging on the wall in front of us. Frankly, I think Jesus has bigger problems. I know I do.

My hand closes around my phone and, as I pull it from my bag, the Maps app takes one last opportunity to scream, ‘MAKE A U-TURN IF POSSIBLE' at top volume as though directing the coffin back towards the land of the living.

The organist stumbles; everyone in the congregation is looking at us now. The dark-haired pall-bearer's shoulders are shaking as the coffin finally reaches the altar.

‘I'm so sorry,' I whisper, muting my phone with trembling fingers while feeling the sort of heat in my cheeks that could power a nuclear facility.

Serena and Lil have collapsed in silent giggles beside me – the occasional unhelpful snort issuing from them as I consider finding a nice open grave to fling myself into.

The service passes off without a hitch after that, not that I am able to pay attention to much of it. There is some music, and a reading from the Bible. Finally, Ripp swaggers up to give the eulogy.

He's tall, lean, with improbably dark shaggy hair, but his face looks more crumpled than the last time I saw him. His jaw, I notice, is softening, his whole face starting to sag, just a little. His black shirt is unbuttoned at least one – if not two – buttons too far for respectful funeral attire, but the disapproving lady in front of me doesn't seem to have an issue with that. Instead she is staring at my father with that look… the one that mixes adulation with awe and a stomach-churning pinch of lust. It's a look I am all too familiar with, having seen it on everyone from my own friends to my year-eight Maths teacher.

‘Carl Montgomery,' Ripp says now, with a slow, sad shake of his head. ‘What a guy. What a loss.' He doesn't speak loudly, but everyone shifts forward, hanging on his words, focussed on the rough rasp of his famous voice. Something happens to Ripp Harris when you give him an audience: he's absolutely magnetic. It's one of the things I've always found difficult about being around him – it feels like he sucks all the air out of a room.

‘Some of you probably know who I am,' Ripp says with faux-humility, and the dragon-lady in front gives a breathy little sigh, clearly falling for it hook, line and sinker. ‘But no one would have heard of me if it hadn't been for Carl. He discovered me, I suppose you'd say, in a pub basement in Sheffield many, many years ago.' He pauses here, flashing his perfectly even, white teeth. ‘Although for the sake of our vanity, I'm sure Carl would want me to say "not that many".'

There's a quiet chuckle that moves through the crowd and Ripp goes on with the eulogy, which no one else seems to notice is actually all about himself. By the time he's reached his second Grammy win, my attention has drifted, and I find myself absently scanning the congregation looking for my mum.

My gaze snags instead on a man near the front. It's the pall-bearer again, though I don't know why I'm so certain when I've only glimpsed the back of his head – surely the backs of people's heads are all quite similar, nondescript things? He's turned to the person beside him, clearly saying something in a low voice, and I notice that his profile is even nicer than his back. I see a slash of cheekbone, the square edge of a jaw, soft, dark hair falling over his forehead, and curling around the shell of his ear.

Something hot and peculiar lances through my body and it takes me a queasy moment to identify it as lust. It's been a while, and I'm actually going to have to give myself a stern talking to. Lusting after a stranger? In church? At a funeral????

While I'm sure Serena and Lil would be delighted by this turn of events, I am not. I tell myself I am not repressing my sexuality; I am demonstrating good manners as I fasten my gaze instead on the sad Jesus dangling from the crucifix on the wall. He looks a bit like a melted candle and there's absolutely nothing sexy about that.

On that thought, the organ pipes up again. This time it's playing something cheerier, as a pair of curtains close around Carl's coffin. I realize it's ‘Here Comes the Sun' by the Beatles, and I feel another twist of sadness, but it's too late now – the funeral is over, and heaving a collective sigh of relief, the crowd begins to make its way out into the weak spring sunshine.

‘How many of this lot are heading back to ours?' Serena asks as we join the throng.

I shrug. ‘Mum said just a handful of close friends.'

Serena grimaces. ‘So about two hundred gawpers then.'

‘I guess so. Where are the mums anyway?' I ask, craning my neck.

‘They were up near the front,' Lil says from behind me. ‘They said to just meet them back at the house.'

‘What on earth are you wearing?' My eyes widen as I finally take in Lil's full funeral attire.

‘What?' Lil asks from behind the black lace veil she has pulled down over her face. The rest of her is swathed in an oversized black tent. She appears to be wearing elbow-length black gloves. ‘We're all in mourning, you know.'

‘She's cosplaying as a Mafia widow,' Serena whispers.

‘I heard that,' Lil snaps. ‘I don't understand why you two are so unconcerned with honouring the dead.'

‘Lil, I swear, if this is about that bloody bird again…' Serena starts.

‘He had a name.' I can only assume the expression behind Lil's veil is fierce.

‘NO, HE DIDN'T,' Serena yells. ‘I REFUSE TO REFER TO A DEAD BIRD AS PETER THE PIGEON.'

I smile wanly at the people around us whose interest is understandably piqued by this outburst. ‘Come on, you two,' I say, my voice low. ‘We've got a wake to get to. And our bloody father is going to be there.'

Without another word they link their arms through mine.

‘I hope there's wine,' I mutter.

‘I know there's tequila,' Serena smirks, opening her handbag and pulling out a bottle.

‘God bless you,' I breathe as we head for the cars.